Finding You Again
by omnomchocolate
Summary: A fateful series of texts forces John and Sherlock to confront their feelings for each other. Alternating perspectives between John and Sherlock. Johnlock. Oneshot. Cowritten with laufeysonchild. Not beta'd or brit-picked.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock.

* * *

**A/N: **This was cowritten with the brilliant writer laufeysonchild. We did this together on Omegle, thus the changing perspectives in this story. I wrote as Sherlock and laufeysonchild wrote as John. Italicized words are meant to be texts.

Other than that, enjoy and don't forget to leave a review!

-omnomchocolate

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Finding You Again

_Can I ask you a question?_ -JW  
_What is it?_ -SH  
_You don't have to answer, I mean, it's kind of personal..._-JW  
_Out with it, John_. -SH  
_You ever been in love?_ -JW  
_No_. -SH  
_Not until recently, that is._ -SH  
_I...really? Huh. Never would've guessed. Who is she?_ -JW  
_Or he? Because that's okay, too._ -JW  
_I know it's okay._ -SH  
_I'm not sure if you will want to know. I really do respect what we have... now. As friends._ -SH  
_As do I. What's that go to do with it?_ -JW  
_Everything, John. Everything._ -SH  
_O...kay... _-JW  
_Why don't you just tell the person_? -JW

* * *

Sherlock looked back from his phone, his heart racing at an uncontrollable rate and foreign emotions invading his mind. He shouldn't have felt this way towards his flatmate, especially since John was as straight as they would get. Sherlock knew that John would never see him the same way he saw John. More than a friend. But he would never want to risk what they had now. It was good. It was safe.

* * *

John rubbed his forehead and buried his head in his hands. Whatever little glimmer of hope he had for ever being in a relationship with his dearly demented detective was now crushed by his recent knowledge that Sherlock was in love with someone. He sighed deeply, thinking to himself that it's probably for the best, that he didn't want to mess up what they had going.

* * *

_Well, I wish you the best for you and whoever it is you fancy, Sherlock. And you really ought to tell them_. -JW

Sherlock stared at John's text on the screen of his phone, his mouth set in a grim line. Maybe he would. Sherlock sighed. He would wait until John got home, and then he would do it. Even if John was sure not to feel the same way, he had to tell him, he had to hear the rejection in John's voice. Best to get it done and over with, Sherlock resolved. They could always go back to normal. They could always pretend that Sherlock didn't have an intense attraction towards his best friend.

* * *

John sat in his office at the surgery, limp in his chair, just staring up at the ceiling. That was it. Sherlock would tell whoever it was he loved and they would no doubt return the feelings. How couldn't they? He was Sherlock Holmes! What was there not to love? John sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Enough, John," he told himself. "You're going to be happy for your mate, yeah? You're going to be happy for him because he'll be happy, and that's what matters." John saw one last patient before he began his trudge home.

* * *

Sherlock groaned in frustration, the unfortunate strings of his violin taking the brunt of his feelings. As every minute passed by, Sherlock began to get more and more nervous and impatient. Doubts! Sherlock scoffed at himself. I'm having doubts! This is utter ludicrousness. It's just a few simple words. Just tell John and get it over with. Sherlock paused his relentless assault on the violin as stared out the window, searching for the familiar tuft of blond hair that was his doctor. John was now late. By two minutes and twenty-three seconds. Sherlock continued his playing as he turned away from the window.

* * *

John was taking his time on his way home. He'd walked nearly half the way before hailing a cab, and he then proceeded to tell the cabbie to take his time. He just stared out the window and watched as everything passed by. Each street, it seemed, held a different memory of his adventures with the detective. His hands rubbed his jeans, anxiously and subconsciously. Maybe I should just go to Sarah's tonight, he thought. It would be so much easier, and I wouldn't have to deal with facing Sherlock tonight. Give myself one more day. One quiet night.

* * *

Where was John? Sherlock nearly broke the strings on his violin with his irritation. It was already half past midnight and John was still nowhere in sight. His heart had yet to stop racing, and if anything, it had only increased in intensity, which made Sherlock even more agitated. He unceremoniously threw down his violin and dropped himself on the couch. He stared blankly at the peeling wall, his mind tearing through possibilities of John's location, before he decided to whip out his phone and ask John himself.

_John_? -SH  
_Yeah_? -JW  
_Are you coming home_? -SH  
_Well, I'm at Sarah's. Why, what's wrong? Do you need me to come home_? -JW

Sherlock set down his phone. He didn't think it was possible, but he could literally feel his heart cracking. Sarah's. Of course. Sherlock had been so stupid, so intent on telling John, that he had forgotten why he was hesitant to tell him in the first place. John is straight, you idiot. What makes you think he'd ever look at you that way? Sherlock turned on his side, facing the couch, and curled his legs. Love was a chemical defect, a weakness, and now he understood why as he felt his feelings spiral out of his reach and his heart crumble into tiny pieces. Sherlock looked at his phone before typing a reply.

_No_. -SH

* * *

John chucked his phone across the room. Why he had /wanted/ Sherlock to say yes, to say that he needed him to come home, was beyond him. He sat up on the couch and looked around before getting up for a glass of water. He needed to be able to face Sherlock, he knew he had to. He couldn't just hide away at Sarah's forever. Sherlock would surely suspect something. He was honestly surprised he hadn't got it all worked out already. At the same time, he was glad he hadn't. At the same time still, he almost wished that he had.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure how much time had passed, when he finally got off the couch and made his way towards John's room. Sherlock gently nudged the door open to find an empty bedroom greeting him back. John was still not home.

* * *

By the morning, John was still apprehensive about going home. Naturally, he had explained to Sarah what was going on, and if he hadn't he would still be at her place. But she had urged him to go home, back to the flat. And so he did. This is going to be dreadful, he thought. He caught a cab and headed back to the flat, nervous the whole ride.

* * *

Sherlock made his way to his room, never having felt so lost, so hopeless, and so disorganized as he was now. Even back when he had used, he had never felt this empty feeling inside his heart, this feeling that made him want to wrench his hands and cry out in absolute despair. Sherlock gave a weak laugh. The great Sherlock Holmes, reduced to this. A man pining for his flatmate's love, something which he would never receive. Weakness. Sherlock scoffed. What Mycroft would give to see me like this.

* * *

John paid off the cabby and made his way up to the door. He hesitated. Did he really want to go in there? To risk having a complete mental breakdown in front of his flatmate and not even be able to explain why? John didn't even trust himself not to cry or get angry. But he had to. He couldn't just avoid Sherlock. He had to go in there and act as though everything was well and good, even though it was the complete opposite. He took a deep breath and walked through the door and up the stairs. "Sherlock?" he called, taking off his jacket as he entered the flat.

* * *

Sherlock laid on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and slowly released his breath. He examined the grey smoke swirling lazily above his head before looking back down at his cigarette. This was one of the sole few remaining that he had stashed in the flat and away from John's prying eyes, having never intending to use it. Until now. After all, he was desperate for some kind of release from his mind, some sort of distraction away from his dying heart. The cigarette was the best thing in the house. Sherlock took another deep drag. He just wanted to stop thinking.

* * *

"Sherlock?" John called again, after having received no response. "Must be out on a case or something," he said aloud. He stood and let his head fall, giggling near hysterically. "He isn't home," he said quietly. He felt almost delusional. "Brilliant." He went over to the desk and got his laptop and sat down in his chair. He hadn't finished writing up the last case, so he figured he may as well do it while he waited for Sherlock to return. Much to his dismay, however, upon proofreading his blog, he found he had let phrases such as 'ever so elegantly walked passed me, in that manner of his' and 'that tall, thin, perfect frame silhouetted magnificently against a grey sky, blazing and beautiful eyes staring straight down' slip past him. He rubbed his eyes and went back to fix his errors before publishing the write-up.

* * *

Sherlock made his way to the living room and found John typing away at his computer, oblivious to Sherlock's feelings and acting no different than any other day. Sherlock stood awkwardly against the door, for once, unsure how to proceed. He supposed he was to act as if nothing had happened, when really, he was dying inside.

"John." Sherlock muttered, running his hands through his hair and making his way towards the couch.

* * *

John looked up, barely having heard Sherlock. His heart began to race uncontrollably, but he remained steady on the outside. Calm. "Oh, there you are. Good morning," he said with a smile. He shut his laptop, still not finished with his revisions (of which, he found, there would need to be many...) Something about Sherlock looked a bit off, though, John couldn't help but to notice. Then again, he was probably just tired. Likely he just woke up, judging by his appearance.

* * *

Sherlock made a point of staring at the ceiling and ignoring John, even though he could feel John's curious gaze on him. Sherlock was struggling to keep his gaze straight and his mind calm. He didn't know how much more of this he could handle. Being around John... It wasn't good for him. Sherlock had too many questions, none of which he could ask and all of which would, no doubt, provide an unsatisfactory answer. That just wasn't something he could handle right now.

* * *

By Sherlock's demeanor, John knew there was something wrong. He looked at Sherlock, trying to figure it out on his own, but he couldn't. A faint little flick of a thought passed through his head. What if this mystery person turned him down? That couldn't be true. Who would turn him down? It was entirely possible, though. He almost felt bad for his flatmate, lying there in obvious...well, discomfort, at the very least. John had to know now what was wrong. He /had/ to fix it. He couldn't stand seeing Sherlock like this. It wasn't right. "Sherlock?" he asked. "What the matter? You don't have to talk if you don't want to, but I want to help. You can trust me, yeah? What's wrong?"

* * *

Sherlock tried not to wince visibly as John called out his name. He turned away from John and curled on his side. He couldn't let John see him like this. Good John. Trusting John. His best friend John. Sherlock had never even noticed how crucial to his life John had become. This man, this small, blonde-haired army doctor had somehow found his way past Sherlock's barriers and into his heart, and Sherlock didn't even know when this had happened. It just had been. Always. But Sherlock had to ruin it. He always found a way to ruin good things in his life. John was a good friend, his only friend, and then he had to go fall in love with his flatmate. If only. Sherlock closed his eyes. If only.

* * *

John watched as Sherlock curled up into a ball on the couch. It pained him to see Sherlock like this, but he knew Sherlock would never let him in. He didn't let anyone in. He couldn't help but to notice the perfect line Sherlock's body created, even contorted in such a strange way. Sherlock really was beautiful, and you'd be a fool not to see it. He had a brilliant physique, perfectly pale skin, amazing cheekbones, but best of all were his eyes. John adored Sherlock's cold as ice eyes. They matched the man perfectly. Everything about him was perfect, even his voice. John oftentimes found himself imagining what it'd be like to be curled up against Sherlock's chest, feeling the vibrations as Sherlock talked in that smooth and deep voice of his. John shook his head out of fantasy and back into reality. He put his laptop down, walked over, and knelt beside Sherlock. "Come on, Sherlock. What's wrong? Please tell me?" he said. He was so close to Sherlock he could smell him. "You're so beautiful," he said without having realized it until it was too late. He slapped a hand over his mouth, hoping, praying it was too quiet for Sherlock to have heard.

* * *

Sherlock stiffened, his mind processing but unbelieving. Sherlock, was amazingly, for once, without words. He didn't want to think this was some sort of cruel and sick joke, played on his already fragile heart. Even so, he couldn't stop the hope that surged forth in him, and he especially couldn't stop his body from turning around and his eyes from looking into John's warm ones. "What..." Sherlock muttered. He blinked, the words threatening to choke in the middle of his throat. Sherlock found himself questioning reality for the first time in his life. "What did you say?"

* * *

"Nothing!" John said, too quickly, removing his hand from his mouth. "I said nothing. It was nothing." He stood up, shaking his head. "Nothing, Sherlock. Nope." He must've sounded completely mental, saying 'nothing' over and over. Shut up! he thought to himself. Just shut it! You're making it worse. "Look...you don't have to...I mean...just" he stuttered out, his heart pounding in his ears as he back-peddled towards the kitchen. "Tea?" he managed to say, turning and heading for the kettle, out of sight of Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock stared at John's quickly receding figure, the words finally settling in. You're so beautiful, John had said. I'm beautiful? Sherlock mused upon this thought. He had heard this several times before, but they were always what they were: meaningless words meant to flatter. But from John, these words took on something new, something important to him. Sherlock needed to hear John say it again, he had to know that this was real. That maybe, he hadn't screwed everything over, that maybe, he still had one good thing in his life. And that maybe, just maybe, he had a chance. A chance that their relationship could be something more. The start of something even better.

* * *

What an idiotic thing to say! John thought to himself. I can't believe I said that. And he heard me! He put the kettle on to boil and gathered the things to make tea. He thought back to Sherlock's reaction. He turned and asked John what he said. He sounded almost disgusted. Christ, what he must be thinking now. Or...was it disgust? John stopped to reconsider. What it disgust in his tone, or was it something else? Now that I think about it, did he sound...curious? Hopeful, even? He couldn't have, John thought, shaking his head. That's far too good to be true. He stopped and just stared down at the counter.

* * *

"John!" Sherlock shouted, almost frantic in his haste to make his way over to his friend. His heart soared with an unrelenting hope, something that he dared not push aside. "John! John! Again!" The words rushed out of his mouth and he waved his hands eagerly. "That... those words... what you last said to me... that... repeat it again!"

* * *

John looked at Sherlock, completely confused. He was assaulted with a myriad of thoughts and emotions, none lasting more than a fleeting second. He just stood for a bit, completely dazed at Sherlock's request. But, of course, as always, he complied. He always had and he always would. He'd do anything Sherlock asked him to do. "I said you're beautiful, Sherlock," he said quietly, first looking at Sherlock, then down at his fidgeting hands.

* * *

It was real. This was real. Sherlock nearly shed tears of joy as John's words washed over him and lodged themselves deep inside Sherlock's mind. Sherlock was flooded with happiness and relief, his once-tattered heart making leaps and bounds. Absolutely remarkable. This man was making him feel the entire spectrum of emotions within the span of 24 hours, more than he ever had in his entire existence. "Brilliant!" Sherlock cried, grasping John's shoulders and shaking his friend back and forth in his excitement. "This is brilliant! Don't you see John?"

* * *

John just stood, wondering what the bloody hell Sherlock was on about now. John had probably helped him in some roundabout and nearly unrelated way find that one tiny missing piece of his latest case. That tended to happen quite often. John just stood, being shook by his flatmate, absolutely confused. Clearly the man was quite excited (ecstatic, even) about something. John stood, dizzy. Dazed. Confused. "What on Earth are you talking about, Sherlock?" he said, expecting some long, drawn-out and completely mad response.

* * *

"John, you utter moron!" Sherlock stared deeply into his confused friend's eyes, wanting nothing more than to immerse himself in them. Sherlock couldn't help but smile at John's dumbstruck look. "John, John, John! I feel the same way." Sherlock pulled John into a tight embrace, the man's unique scent pervading his senses.

* * *

John's heart stopped. He stood, completely stiff and still under Sherlock's sudden and tight embrace. Could he mean what he thought he meant? Was Sherlock saying he was...in love with John? No, it couldn't be. This is Sherlock. He's probably just...accepting a compliment in some weird way, saying he...also thinks he is beautiful? That doesn't make any sense, John! he thought to himself. He was trembling by now. "Sherlock, I'm still confused," John said, his voice muffled against Sherlock's shoulder.

* * *

Sherlock never wanted to let John go. He wanted to cherish this moment, this event that he never thought would ever happen. Sherlock slowly leaned back and took John's face in his hands, his eyes serious and never once leaving John's. "John Hamish Watson, I am saying that I love you."

* * *

John's eyes widened and his mouth hung slack. It was true. It was really happening. John's heart skipped a few beats, then began to race. His stomach did flips. He felt absolutely amazing. His knees nearly buckled out from under him and he held on to Sherlock for support. "I...Sh...uh...wha..." He stood there, babbling incoherently, unable to finish a word. Can't finish a bloody word! I must look like a complete idiot! he thought, feeling a blush creep onto his face. He took a deep breath and smiled a huge, goofy grin, finally calm enough to speak. "I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

As Sherlock looked at the man standing in front of him, this army doctor from Afghanistan, he realized that he had been wrong all this time. Love was not a weakness, it was not a chemical defect. What he was feeling at this moment, there was just no possible way that it was. Love was happiness. It was strength. Sherlock didn't understand how he had lived for so long without this, without a heart. John, Sherlock realized, was his heart. Now that he had it, he would never let it go. He would cherish and protect this with all of his being. It was thanks to John that Sherlock was now truly living. And this, was a fact that Sherlock Holmes had never been more sure of.

FIN


End file.
